Free Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) by Sonja Heisinger Page B

within arm’s length.
    “May I order the victor another?” Brock asked.
    Lucius didn’t look up, nor did he question the offer. He was always willing to accept a free drink.
    “Absolutely.”
    Brock shouted his order to the bartender and took a seat.
    “I’ve been told you have a maddening way with luck,” he told Lucius.
    “I’d like to think it’s intellect. Intellect is less fickle.”
    “Then you must be a businessman as well as a gold digger.”
    “Ha!” Lucius plucked the cigar from his mouth and looked at Brock for the first time. Here was a man’s man: big, bold, rugged, and confident. “I like you,” Lucius said, his eyes glittering. “What is your name?”
    “Brock Donnigan.”
    “Lucius Flynn. I haven’t played with you before.” He was curious now. “To what do I owe my gratitude for the drink?”
    “My best mate was Irish. You remind me of him.”
    “ Was? What happened to him?”
    Brock smirked.
    “He was killed over a hand of poker.”
    Lucius laughed and clapped Brock on the back.
    “I’m sure he was! Tell me. What kind of a name is Brock?”
    “My mother named me after the man she loved.”
    “Named for your da, then.”
    “No. My mother hated my father.”
    Lucius tried to figure this out, as his brain worked slowly on account of the alcohol.
    “I see,” he replied presently.
    “And what kind of a name is Lucius?” Brock asked.
    “My namesake was a saint,” he said proudly. “Lucius is Latin for ‘light’. My mother must have known I would be brilliant.”
    “My God, you are quite the pompous champion.”
    “My apologies. I am terribly elated. Victories must be celebrated, my friend… and I know just the thing! Supper is in half an hour. You must join us.”
    Sometimes even Brock was amazed at how easily things came to him.
    “I would be delighted.”
    Lucius stood, happy to have made yet another new friend. If this Brock Donnigan had any money, perhaps he might even be influenced to lose a game or two of poker.
    “Come!” Lucius demanded. “Let us find the others. I shall introduce you to our party.”
     
                The clouds were changing from white to gray to marbled pink, and the silver Castillo was now washed in gold as Evelyn and Adele stood on deck, gazing out over Havana at dusk.
                “He is such a gentleman,” Evelyn told her friend, dwelling upon the many times she had observed Adele’s husband in the past week. “I am positively green with envy. He always speaks in gentle tones, and whenever he is near, his hands are ever upon some surface of your body, be it your arms, the small of your back, or lightly caressing the tips of your fingers. I would love to find a man like him, if only I believed one existed.” She thought of Lucius and shuddered. “I fear you may have gobbled up the world’s last gentleman, Adele.”
                “He is a wonderful man,” Adele agreed, “but he is not the last of his breed. Perhaps there is another like him, and perhaps he is on this very ship!”
                Together, the women looked over their shoulders at the assembly of men on deck, in search of Stephen Whitfield’s rival. Their eyes passed over many faces before landing on one unshaven specimen with a finger up his nose, and they covered their mouths like schoolgirls and burst into laughter.
                “Grotesque!” Evelyn exclaimed. “My case is hopeless.”
                “My dear Evelyn,” Adele giggled, “the company here is not exactly refined. Let us have another look, just for fun.”
                They turned once more and were greeted with the sight of Brock and Lucius, who had emerged on the opposite side of the deck.
                Evelyn abruptly turned back to the rail, her heart leaping madly, and grabbed Adele by the arm.
                “Quick, Adele! Do not let him know we have seen him!”
                Adele